


Shadows

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 14:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4440149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in early season 12. Wash is working himself to the bone, Donut helps how he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows

     Every since arriving at Armonia, none of them had been sleeping well.

     It could be worst, Donut mused, sitting on the edge on one of the walls, looking down at the training grounds. Back when they first got captured, they’d been expecting death or torture to be in the future, not the sprawling grounds of the army base. All things considered, this was a far better outcome.

     It still wasn’t great, though. Nothing could be considered okay when half their men were missing to a rebel force who had nothing but violence at the mind. The void left in his friends wake was enough to keep Donut up at night; the absence of Grif’s snores and Simmon’s wheezing felt like a gaping hole in his chest. Like he’d been shot all over again.

     If they were dead, Donut thought, he wasn’t sure how he was going to deal. How Sarge was going to deal despite his false distaste for both of his subordinates.

     How Washington, who’d spent the last five hours in the training grounds beating at the same training dummy, was going to deal.

     Donut peeled off his helmet, resting it on the wall he was sitting on. The Chorus sun was far too hot to be wearing full armor in. His bad eye, the one near his sticky bomb scar, stung when the light shone its way, but Donut ignored it. He had observing to do.   

     During his time with Doc, the medic had told him quite a bit about mental conditions. Nothing too descriptive, of course, but enough for him to get a bit of a handle on what losing people could do to a person. Stuff like PTSD and anxiety attacks. And while Donut was nowhere near confident enough to label Wash with either affliction, he could tell by the soldiers movements that something was wrong.

     Healthy men didn’t practice the same routine for hours in full armor. Healthy men didn’t have to control their breathing when their men came up in conversation. Healthy men didn’t scream in their sleep loud enough to wake the entire barracks.

     Donut peeled off his gloves, setting them next to his helmet. As a member of Red team, Donut had always considered his role to be champion thrower and emotional support. Normally, he’d leave helping Washington to Blue team. But Blue team wasn’t here. Blue team was being held prisoner miles away and if they had any chance of getting their friends back, someone was going to have to help Washington deal with his emotional baggage.

     “Franklin Delano Donut reporting for duty,” Donut said under his breath before pushing himself off the wall and down onto the training room floor. It was a decent sized fall, maybe a story or so, but Donut landed just fine, his boots clinking against the metal floor. Wash stopped trying to beat his punching bag into the next life and looked towards Donut.  Even though his helmet was still on, Donut could picture the concerned look on the Freelancer’s face.

     “You shouldn’t take your armor off in an active war zone,” he said, voice strict. Forever the team Mom. Donut wasn’t sure how Blue team stood this his constant active fretting. The Red soldier looked back to his helmet on the wall. The light was reflecting off his visor.

     “I think heat stroke is a bigger concern at the moment,” he said. “Which you should be worrying about yourself, Agent Crabby Pants.” He reached for the water jug he kept on his uniforms belt and threw it at Washington. It showed how exhausted the Freelancer was when he almost didn’t catch it. “Water is good for your complexion, you know.  And not having heat stroke.”

     “I know to drink water.” Donut raised an eyebrow.

     “Through your helmet? Now that’s something that I’d like to see.” Washington didn’t budge so Donut pushed further. “Come’on. I promise, I won’t laugh at your helmet hair.”

     That seemed to do it. Washington reached for the clasps of his helmet, pulling it off in one firm motion. He let it fall to the ground, the back hitting the concrete with a smacking noise. Washington’s face was covered in sweat, some of it dripping off his nose and chin. His face was flushed entirely red. His blonde hair was sticking to his forehead making it look like he had bangs. Donut tried not to frown at the deep dark circles under the Agent’s eyes. Washington had always looked troubled, Donut was used to that, but this was the first time in a long time that he looked haunted.

     “If you want to prove you know how to drink water, you might want to start by unscrewing the lid.” Wash glared at him before taking the jug to his lips. He drank slow at first, modest sips, but soon enough he was practically inhaling the thing, trying to get every last drop. Soon the jug was empty.

     “Well, looks like I’m going to need a refill,” Dount said. Wash looked down to the empty jug in his hands and began to open his mouth to apologize but Donut cut him off. “No, no, it’s fine, I’d rather you drink than collapse here in some swoon. If you fainted, you’d be really killing your image.”

     “My image?” The beginning of a smile began to appear on Washington’s face. It seemed a little forced, but it was still a welcome sight. Donut nodded, walking over so he was closer to the other man. Not close enough to be in his personal space, just right on the edge.

      “Well yeah. The cool Freelancer image. One of us has to be respectable, and God knows Sarge and I aren’t up to it. Or Lopez.” He reached forward to shove Washington, a light nudge. The man let him, which Donut took as a good sign to continue. “I mean, think about it. You really want the others to come here to find that you’re the most known for fainting while fighting a dummy? Tucker will never let you hear the end of it.”

     Washington’s smile soured, the haunted look coming back into his eyes. “Donut-”

     Donut wasn’t having it. “Don’t Donut me!” He took a step forward, fully stepping into the Freelancer’s space. “Look, you can be a negative Nancy if you want, but I’m not going to sit here and think that we don’t got a chance of seeing them again. Not after all we’ve been through.” He cleared his throat. It was serious Donut time. “Look, we’re going to find them, Washington. We’re going to find them, and they’re going to be alright, and we can all start getting back to normal. We can listen to Grif and Simmons complain about one another, and try to teach Caboose how to cook, and you can try to force Tucker into your crazy Marine training.” He took a deep breath. Washington looked like he was either about to punch him or fall over. Which Donut was prepared for either way. He changed his tone into something more calming. “But that’s not going to happen if you work yourself into the ground.” He plucked the water bottle out of Washington’s hands and tucked it back into his belt. “So take a break.” Washington was still staring at him, his gaze moving from Donut’s face to his chest. Where he shot him. That would be emotional baggage to deal with another day.  Donut turned towards his helmet and gestured to Washington. “I’m gonna go get dinner. You wanna come, or you wanna keep sulking out here?”

     Washington pressed his lips together. Closed his eyes. Took a deep breath through his nose. For a second. Donut thought he might have failed in this entire endeavor. But after a second he opened his eyes and smiled. Still haunted, but trying to escape it.

     “You really think my Marine training is crazy?”   

     For the first time in a long time, they both laughed.


End file.
